Picking Sides
by Mandelene
Summary: When alliances change and all semblance of family is torn apart, Canada must re-evaluate where his loyalties lie. How can he take part in a war against his own brother? (Revolutionary War era)
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: This story was requested by **kayladchristine** on my Tumblr. It'll probably be two or three chapters in length. I hope you guys enjoy it!

* * *

England is coming to visit.

It's been a while since Canada has seen the man. In fact, he can't quite recall the last time he was able to speak to him in person rather than by letter. Has it been two years or three? Keeping track of the passing days is hard sometimes, especially when he's alone in the house so very often nowadays, sitting in the rickety chair in the living room, reading at great length to fill the time.

There isn't much to do other than housework. England deals with the nitty gritty details of maintaining the colonies and regulating his trade relations. Aside from the occasional local matter he is allowed to tend to, Canada is essentially free to spend his days however he so wishes. He used to take trips down to Boston to see America whenever the boredom became too much to bear, but now, he isn't even able to do that, given the political tension. He misses his brother more than he can fully express, but something gives him the feeling America doesn't want to be bothered right now, not unless Canada promises to pledge his allegiance to his cause, which Canada refuses to do. He knows where his loyalties lie, and because of this, he's cut off all contact with America until this whole rebellion gets sorted out. It is best to let England and America work out the problem without his intervention.

England used to visit frequently, back before Canada knew how to read or tie a knot—back when he'd needed a mentor in his life to guide him. But things weren't easy even in those days. The first transition years from being under French rule and then under English rule were painful, perhaps not physically, but certainly emotionally. France had been the first person to fit the role of a father figure, teaching him the ins-and-outs of daily life and how to cook for himself, keep a garden from wilting, and connect with his people by walking through town and getting to know everyone, forcing him to break out of his shell just the slightest bit.

He'd been attached to France.

And so, when the Seven Years War came to a close, and it was suddenly declared that he was going to be torn away from the first familial bond he'd ever formed, he didn't take the news very well. He'd cried and cried, and then cried some more. Begged France not to leave—to take him with him. Promised he'd follow him to the other side of the world and do anything just to stay by his side. France understood him. He'd given him haircuts and read him stories by the fireplace on cold nights. He held him when he was scared. He always knew how to fix any problem over a good meal. He could make Canada feel like he was the most important person in the world.

But then, England had changed all of that. Canada had expected a foreboding and wild-eyed man with perpetually tousled hair and a short temper to be his new mentor, and while those definitions remain somewhat accurate, Canada has realized these first impressions were misleading. Though the Englishman's cooking is notoriously horrible, and he can't cut hair to save his life, he's not all that menacing. Granted, England can be irate and impossible to tolerate when he's in a sour mood, but he has rarely acted this way in Canada's presence. They have very quickly been able to warm up to one another, sharing a natural, friendly, diplomatic relationship. Canada has learned that if he simply follows England's instructions and doesn't cause him any trouble, the man will act graciously toward him in return, and so, although they will never have the same love between them that Canada feels he'd shared with France, they're still capable of feeling some fondness for one another, if not for one profound obstacle that occasionally stands in their way.

America.

Try as he might, Canada knows he will never compare to America in England's eyes. Somehow, despite the fact that America is everything but obedient and often makes England absolutely furious, he'll still always be first in England's heart. Canada is doomed to live in his shadow. He is the afterthought. The second-best child. The one who is there to put out the fires America sets and to fix the wounds his brother has left England with.

That isn't to say England doesn't care about him at all. He does, or at least, Canada thinks he does, but it's not the same kind of care. He knows the difference because the way England looks at America is the way France used to look at him, and Canada knows he will never be able to attain that kind of level of affection again.

He isn't jealous of his brother. He has accepted the reality of the situation and understands this is the way things must be, and he truly wants the best for him. He wants him to be loved by someone. It just hurts him when he sees America not appreciating that love because Canada knows what it's like to lose it. In this way, he can sympathize with England. Oftentimes, Canada has to wonder if America even cares about England at all. Surely, he must?

He cleans the whole house and makes sure it's in impeccable shape for the man's arrival.

* * *

It's raining when England finally comes marching onto the porch in waterlogged boots and soggy clothes, abandoning his carriage in the torrential downpour behind him. He seems to be carrying his despondence with him lately, bringing clouds wherever he goes.

Canada doesn't waste any time in taking his coat and getting him settled in. He offers him a set of dry clothes to wear and puts an extra log in the fireplace, doing his best to dutifully ensure he's done everything he can to help. After half an hour or so of drying off and regaining his composure, England is finally able to properly greet him with a stiff hug and small talk.

"You've grown since I've last seen you, my boy," England murmurs, sounding both pleased and not by this revelation. "I trust you've been doing well? No trouble in town?"

Canada knows what he really wants to ask is if there have been any signs of revolution lately. "Everything's been fine."

"I'm glad to hear it. It's so wonderful to see you. I wish I could have checked in sooner, but certain matters have been taking up all of my time," England laments, perching himself on one of Canada's worn, velvet armchairs.

"Mmm, I can imagine," Canada replies softly, careful not to say too much because perhaps England doesn't want to talk about the impending revolution in the nation next door. America has always been a sensitive topic with him.

However, it seems like today is a good day to talk about it, since England seems to need someone to vent his frustrations to. He brings up the topic himself by saying, "Oh, Canada, I don't suppose you have any idea when this silly phase of defiance your brother has been displaying will finally come to an end? Has he spoken to you lately?"

"No, I'm sorry. I haven't spoken to him."

"Ahh, it's all right. There's no need to trouble yourself with it anyway—that's my responsibility."

"Would you like some tea?"

"Yes, yes, of course. Thank you, lad."

Canada sets the kettle on and returns to the living room once he's done, resuming his place in a chair opposite England. "Have the recent negotiations helped?"

"I'm afraid not. The boy is set on being incorrigible. I don't know what to do with him, quite honestly, and I don't want this to have to result in military force—it would be terrible—but he isn't leaving me with any choice. If he wants a war, perhaps it's high time he learned exactly what war entails."

At that, Canada feels a jitter run through his hands and the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. If England chooses to force America into compliance, it will be devastating for everyone involved, and there's no way America would stand a chance against such well-trained soldiers and the most powerful navy in the world. For a moment, he feels a sting of fear run through his heart for his brother.

"There must be some other way."

England frowns, runs a weary hand over his face and says, "I will try my best to find an alternative, but should those alternatives fail, I may require your assistance, Canada. I have a dozen other issues cropping up in Europe at the moment, and I can't be in so many places at once."

Canada purses his lips and says, sheepishly, "You have my full support, England. I'll do whatever has to be done."

"Thank you, my boy. You've no idea how reassuring that is to hear. America seems to have forgotten his place and his duty to the Crown, and if I may, I'd like to ask you to make an attempt at reasoning with him. Perhaps you will be able to influence him to step down. If he puts an end to this now, I shall be more forgiving, and we can put this behind us."

"As much as I'd like to think America would listen to me, England, I doubt he will, but I'll try," Canada whispers back, haltingly. He is conflicted. He shouldn't have to choose between his brother and the empire. He's not sure he's ready to make that kind of decision. He has sworn his loyalty to England and intends to stay true to his word, but he doesn't want to hurt America—doesn't want to even consider what might happen if he has to raise a gun at his men.

And yet, it seems that's a choice he will soon have to make anyway.

* * *

When he reaches Boston, America is there to greet him with sunshine and smiles. He's like a grasshopper jumping back and forth in front of Canada's field of view, chattering on and on about how things are looking up, and how he's never been so optimistic about the future.

"You've been tucked away up north too long, brother," America accuses with a beaming grin, but Canada can sense the underlying unease in his words. "I was beginning to think you'd forgotten all about me! You weren't responding to my letters, and I wasn't sure how to find out if you were okay."

"I'm fine. I'm sorry for making you worry," Canada replies, not sure what else to say. He's here with an agenda in mind, of course. He needs to get America to reconsider his stance, and right now, that seems like it's going to be an insurmountable task. "I just… I knew you have plenty to deal with right now, and I didn't want to add to your problems."

"I always have time for you, Canada. You're not adding any problems. You couldn't if you tried! You're too damned nice, I swear."

Canada smiles awkwardly as something splits apart in his chest. He has a feeling America won't think he's such a swell individual when he finds out the real reason for his visit. Best to be subtle and wait for the right moment to bring up the topic. They can discuss is over tea tonight, but at the moment, he should listen to America's merry banter and let the ice between them melt.

"England sure has been a pain in the neck, and it seems he has everyone keeping tabs on me. I can't seem to be able to take a stroll outside anymore without one of his darned redcoats reporting the news back to him. As you can see, they've pretty much occupied the place after what happened at the harbor. It's going to take some work to get them scrambling away from here. I'm guessing England knows about our meeting?"

There's no reason to lie. "Yes."

"Hmm, that's not surprising. I wish we could have a little privacy, Canada. That way, I could take you around the city and be a better host, but I really can't bring myself to stay on the streets for too long with all of these pairs of eyes on my back at all times. I hope you don't mind staying inside for most of the day?" America asks with a deep frown.

"That's fine. I don't mind at all."

"See? I told you—too nice."

They shuffle through the front door of America's house (which in reality still belongs to England), and Canada has to raise one of his brows when he sees two redcoats stationed directly in the front yard, stone-faced and pretending not to pay them any mind. England really is surveilling America to a new extreme.

"I don't have any tea around, for obvious reasons, but would you care to try some coffee?" America asks, not acknowledging the soldiers. He merely steps inside, shuts the door firmly, and locks it behind them.

"Yes, that sounds great."

As America bustles off to the kitchen, Canada takes the chance to take a good look at how much the house has changed. It's definitely dustier, and all of the curtains have been drawn over the windows, blocking out the sunlight and leaving all of the rooms in a state of languid darkness aside from the dim flicker of some candles America has lit. The quietude is unsettling, and Canada decides to follow America into the kitchen, feeling uncomfortable.

"I know why you're here," America states as soon as he reaches the doorway, back turned.

Canada bites his lip. "You do?"

"England thinks he can send you here as his messenger. Well, it's not going to work. I told him I'm done with his tyrannical rule. There's going to be a war, and nothing can change that now."

"It doesn't have to be this way," Canada hurriedly cuts in, anxious to get his point across. "England said he was willing to negotiate. He even offered to give your people the representation they wanted. You just have to take the offer now before this escalates any further."

"The time for negotiation has ended, and I've made that clear to England. He's got a lot of nerve trying to get my own brother to coerce me, but you don't know any better, and it isn't your fault. You're just following orders," America huffs, gaze darkening.

"I'm not England's puppet. I can make my own choices," Canada suddenly snaps back, stunning himself with his own courage. Something about America suggesting he's just a helpless, little colony has rubbed him the wrong way. "But if this does end in war, I…. I will side with him."

"Then you're nothing but another shameless redcoat," America hisses, and the venom in his words makes Canada's chest ache again.

"You're making a mistake. This is a fight you can't win. You're being reckless and stupid, America."

America seems to wear those adjectives as a badge of honor, grinning slyly as he pours them each a cup of coffee with meticulous care. "Is that so? You really believe that?"

"Yes, I do."

"Well, I can't wait to prove you wrong then."

"England has been as lenient as he can be, and you're starting a riot over nothing!"

America shakes his head and laughs, taking a sip of his coffee. "We're different people, Canada. It's funny—sometimes I wake up and look at my reflection and think you're staring back at me, and yet, we're nothing alike. I hope once all of this is over, we can work something out, and I can help you see a life for yourself outside of the British Empire."

"How can you be so certain you're going to win?" Canada rasps, losing fervor.

America lowers his head with a sad smile and shrugs his shoulders. "How can I believe anything else?"

"It doesn't bother you that you're hurting England? How can you not care about how he feels after all of the years he's raised you?"

"The same way you stopped caring about France. I've outgrown England. I'm ready to move on," America retorts smoothly.

Canada has to take in a sharp breath to steady himself. "I never stopped caring about France. You never stop caring about the people who make you who you are, so don't try to compare our separate situations. I haven't moved on. I've just learned to adapt to change and accept it."

"Well, I won't accept things the way they are. And it's strange to hear you speak so highly of France after he has promised to aid me—should this really amount to war."

That's when Canada is sure his heart stops for a moment. He thinks America is bluffing, but he wouldn't lie about something like that. "What do you mean?"

"France is on the side of the Patriots. Whether it's just to taunt England or because he actually believes in our cause is irrelevant to me," America explains, hopping up onto the counter behind him to sit on it.

Canada knows that counter. It's where America sat in 1763, when he was just a bit smaller. England had brought Canada to Boston for the first time, and they'd found America in the garden that day, nursing a rash after he'd been exploring the woods outside the city and ran into some poison ivy. He wasn't supposed to be wandering away so far from home in the first place, but he'd managed to convince the maid he would just be going into town to run some errands. England had given him a good scolding and made him sit on this very counter before applying some kind of thick, herbal ointment over the red splotches snaking down the length of America's arms.

That was just over a decade ago. So much has changed. Back then, they were almost like a family.

"France is a sovereign nation and can side with whomever he wants," Canada mutters, but the words hurt as they roll off his tongue.

America smirks, and there's a taunting look in his eyes. "I can see I won't be able to reform you. Oh, well... I guess we don't really have anything left to talk about then. Finish your coffee, and I'll see you on your way. Send my regards to England, and let him know I'm looking forward to running into him on the battlefield. Should be exciting."

Exciting isn't exactly the best word to use in this context—more like nerve-wracking.

Canada rubs a hand over his eyes and makes one last feeble attempt at some sort of reconciliation. He looks directly into America's bright blue eyes—two endless skies—and darkly wonders why the people he grows close to always find new ways to hurt him. Is this what families are supposed to be like? The constant fighting, the rivalries and tensions, the battle to establish control—are they just part of human nature?

"America, _brother_ , don't do this. You're shooting yourself in the foot, and I can't watch you do it."

"So don't watch."

"That's not—" Canada's words get tangled in his throat at the worst possible time.

"I appreciate the concern, but you wouldn't have to be concerned if you joined me and gave me some backing."

"You know I can't do that."

America smiles stretches too widely to be genuine. "You're never going to get ahead with that attitude, Canada. You're being loyal to a dog that's got its jaw wrapped around your hand, and even if it's not biting down hard now, it will soon enough."

There are hundreds and hundreds of eloquent arguments Canada could make in response, and yet, all of them are just out of reach. He swallows hard, dabs at a bit of sweat on his forehead with a handkerchief, and lamely says, "Well… Good luck, then."

"You, too."

Canada wants to kick himself, hard. Good luck? His brother is going to war with the mightiest empire in the world, and all he has to say is good luck? What is wrong with him? England should just hang him for treason right now. Let him be publically shamed for failing to do the one job he'd been assigned.

"Finish your coffee, and I'll see you on your way," America repeats cordially, as though none of their previous conversation ever took place.

Canada nods, face blanching. He wraps his clammy hands around the mug America hands him and wishes he didn't feel so empty inside. "C-Could you by any chance send France my regards?"

"Sure. Don't worry about it."

"Thank you."

"But I don't think England would approve. Which side _are_ you on?"

Oh, God. He's going to either collapse or be sick. Neither of those options sound pleasant at the moment.

He takes a big swig of coffee and internally pleads for his stomach to stop roiling. The answer is obvious. He's England's colony. He represents England. He will fight on England's side. It's an easy response.

So why can't he directly say it anymore? He just stated it a few minutes ago, but that was before he knew France was involved. Things are more complicated now than they were when he first stepped into this house.

He downs the rest of the coffee, leaves America without a proper response, and hurries away, sweat rolling down his back as his stomach clenches tightly with anxiety.

He needs space to think.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's note: Here's part two (the finale) of this little short story. Thanks again to **kayladchristine** on Tumblr for the request. If you'd like to submit a request, I'm always open to new ideas on my blog, Mandelene Fics.

* * *

War is easy to think about for the person who isn't doing any of the fighting or planning. If Canada had just been a governor of some province, he wouldn't have to consider the minutiae involved in figuring out what preparations to make and how many lives may be on the line. He wouldn't have to think about sending his men out to battle on a front he doesn't really want to put them on. How can he be expected to treat his people like pawns, maneuvering them whichever way he pleases without giving them a say in the matter?

It's all very agonizing and frustrating, to say the least. The night he returns from his impromptu visit to Boston, he lies in bed and stares at the ceiling for three hours straight, mind reeling and eyes burning with thousands of visions of what the outcomes of this fighting might be. He sees America, broken and bloody. He sees France, calling out to him to join his side. He sees England with expectant eyes, waiting for him to do what he promised he would. How would England punish him if he backed out now?

He doesn't get any sleep. Instead, he paces back and forth in his bedroom until the sun rises, blinking his exhausted eyes and feeling numb all over, as if someone has stolen his ability to feel emotions. Someone has sucked out his soul, leaving him in an empty shell. He isn't himself anymore.

" _Mon lapin, you were always so clever."_

Now he's hearing voices. He turns around and half of his brain thinks he'll see France while the other half knows he's hallucinating. If England were here right now, he'd be fussing over him and lecturing about the importance of getting a good night of rest in order to perform at one's best. He'd be talking to him as if he were still a little boy, unable to make rational decisions for himself and needing an elder's guidance.

Is that how America feels? Does he feel belittled by England at times as well? Is that a justifiable reason to revolt when the majority of his brother's population is actually still loyal to the Crown?

He has so many questions and too few answers. Maybe he is too young to take care of himself. At times, it seems as though he doesn't know anything about the world—at least not the important stuff. If he were in America's shoes and had somehow successfully revolted, would he be able to govern himself? Probably not. Honestly, sometimes Canada surprises himself when he remembers to buy enough food to last him for two weeks and can keep the house reasonably clean and tidy.

It isn't well until the morning that he's able to function enough to brew himself a cup of tea and force some breakfast down his throat. He'd hoped having something in his stomach would make him feel less hollow, but no such luck.

He can't go on like this. He has to do something. Sitting around and dreading the inevitable isn't going to improve his situation.

He abandons the remainder of his tea and stows himself away in his small study, where his tiny mahogany desk is waiting for him, cleared and organized. It's not the first time he's sought refuge in this room, and he has a feeling this won't be the last either.

He slides into his desk chair, slaps a fresh piece of parchment in front of him and gets to work on drafting a letter to France, fingers shaking so hard he almost knocks over his inkwell a few times in the process. He shouldn't be contacting the man without getting England's approval first, and it's quite possible this idea will backfire, but he's feeling bold enough to be a little rebellious himself.

 _Dear Francis—_

Too informal. They're not on such familial terms anymore.

 _Francis Bonnefoy—_

 _Former imperialist whom I occasionally cared for_

He crumples up the entire piece of parchment, bangs his head lightly against his desk, and groans. He can't find any of the right words to use. Everything sounds awkward and insincere at best. The previous boldness coursing through his veins vanishes, and he glares at the ruined letter, feeling terrible for almost colluding with France while simultaneously hating himself for ignoring France since the break in their political ties occurred. He should've reached out at some point to assure the man that although things have been rocky, he still appreciates the Frenchman for raising him into the young man he now is.

Damn America. Damn America a hundred times over for putting him through this agony. Damn him for being selfish. Damn him for his convictions. Damn him for wanting to be free.

Damn him for not knowing when to surrender.

* * *

No one's sure who fired the first shot, and Canada doesn't care to know, quite honestly.

It is official now—they are at war.

That is to say, Canada, as an extension of the British Empire, is at war with America just as much as England is. England's men and his men are one and the same. They wear the same uniforms, follow the same orders, share the same camps and forts, and the thought still makes Canada uneasy. He has found that the best way to deal with this revelation is to pretend he's ignorant. After the Battles of Lexington and Concord, he vows to stay away from all news related to the war. If there's something crucial he needs to know, England will make sure to contact him. Otherwise, he goes about his business as usual, trying to retain a sense of normalcy in his life as his soldiers are trained along England's and are sent on marches down south.

It is bloody. There's no other way around it. When England returns from Massachusetts and drops by for a short stay, Canada is forced to witness the consequences of the fighting. England comes into his house with lacerations crisscrossing his arms and torso, a limp in his right leg, and a shoulder swollen to double the size it should be.

Canada himself has sustained a few small injuries as a side-effect of his men dying and being injured on their marches, but aside from a few bruises here and there, he has been managing fine for now.

If England's looking worse for wear, he doesn't want to imagine what America looks like.

To his credit, England is taking all of this well, or at least, he's pretending to. When he half-walks, half-staggers into the kitchen, he does so with the same obstinate air Canada has witnessed him display for years now, as though the recent fighting is nothing but a small skirmish that he expects should subside within the next day or two.

Canada offers to tend to the man's wounds only to be barked at dismissively with back-to-back responses like "No, no don't trouble yourself, honestly," and "I'm fine—all of this fussing is making my head ache." So, he makes some obligatory tea, sets out a tray of pastries, and leaves a roll of bandages on the table—a gentle invitation for England to take advantage of them should he finally admit to himself that he's not as fine as he wants to seem.

But it isn't the physical injuries that seem to have caused England the most grief. Rather, something deeper, more intimate, seems to be bothering him. He's picked up a number of nervous tics, like tapping his foot to fill silence and wringing his hands during conversation. He doesn't appear to realize these small changes in behavior, and Canada isn't going to point them out because it would be rude.

Canada tries to act as natural as possible, but he hasn't mastered the art of stoicism like his mentor has just yet. He tries to discuss England's trip here, and during this exchange, he accidentally mentions France, jokingly asking whether or not the man has been trying to get under his skin again. He normally jokes about France around England, but these aren't normal times.

England sucks in a breath as though he's been slapped and snarls, "That frog should know to stay on the other side of the Atlantic. He's using America's naivety to try to re-establish a foothold here, but his efforts are in vain. He can find himself a different continent to colonize."

"You don't think he cares about America?" Canada asks, and his heart sinks as soon as the words leave his mouth. He's just triggered a landmine.

"Of course not!" England shouts, whisking himself up and onto his unsteady feet. "It's yet further evidence that America is too young and irresponsible to care for himself! He is swayed by the empty words and promises of other nations too easily! If I weren't here to protect him—!" he cuts himself off, frown deepening.

Except England isn't protecting America anymore. He's hurting him.

Canada stares silently at the man, waiting for him to finish his thought or do something, but he just stands there, stiff with anger and anguish. "Have you spoken to America since… you know?"

"There's nothing to say until he surrenders."

And Canada has a feeling America won't be surrendering anytime soon.

* * *

On an unusually warm evening in early July, just as Canada is getting ready to turn in for the night, someone nearly knocks his front door off its hinges.

His first reaction is one of paralyzing fear—someone has broken in. Well, let them take his belongings. It's not as though he has anything of value in the house. What he's really scared of is the thought of being attacked, and while he can't technically die, a good blow to the head might leave him unconscious for a number of days, and the recovery certainly wouldn't be pleasant.

He bites his lower lip and debates whether or not he should grab the musket he keeps stored in the basement, but how would he get to the basement? Would the intruder see him? Would it be worth it to make a run for it?

In the midst of his deliberating, the door to his bedroom comes flying open, and Canada lets out an involuntary yell, startled. Time seems to slow down, and he swears his life flashes before his eyes until he finally catches sight of the robber.

And it appears the intruder isn't a robber at all, unless England is interested in seizing his silverware and china sets.

"Why are you howling like a banshee?" England demands, stomping inside. His face is a plethora of reds and purples, evidence of his outrage.

Canada opens and closes his mouth, strange little squeaks catching themselves on his lips as he tries to reply. Why is the man angry with him anyway? "I-I didn't expect a visit from you."

England holds out a document as way of explanation, and it looks like official business.

Heart still traumatized, Canada carefully takes the document and frowns at it. It must be pretty important if it was enough to make England burst into his house unannounced—something he would never do if he were worried about remaining gentlemanly.

" _IN CONGRESS, JULY 4, 1776_

 _The unanimous Declaration of the thirteen united States of America_

 _When in the Course of human events it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation._

 _We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness."_

Canada's chest contracts painfully as he reads on. This isn't good. This is America's way of asserting he will fight for as long as he must and intends to be as difficult and uncompromising as possible. It's him telling England to go and toss himself overboard for all he cares.

Cautiously, Canada looks up from the document and ventures to look over at England, who has been seething this entire time, breaths labored from the effort of having to keep some semblance of his composure.

Why is he being shown this? What does England expect him to do? Does he think he can talk America out of this? That'll be near impossible.

He hands America's latest act of rebellion back to England and sighs. Is it selfish to be tired of being the mediator between England and America? He wants to be able to say he wholeheartedly vows to do everything to mitigate the tension between them, but honestly, this is something Canada can't fix. He can't help England in the way the man wants him to. England wants some kind of magic settlement or compromise, and he still doesn't seem to accept that this problem runs deeper than some silly taxes.

He begins to formulate a way to break the news to the man that he needs to start looking at this from a more strategic perspective than one of personal ties, but suddenly, England drops the declaration, lets it float harmlessly from his hands down to the floor, and strides forward to hug Canada, clutching him tightly.

Canada feels his muscles seize up in response and chides himself for being so insensitive. Of course England doesn't want to hear about military planning at a time like this. Of course he didn't come here to rant and fume. He came here for some kind of closure—to find solace, or at the very least, to talk to someone who might understand and sympathize with him.

England's rage morphs into sorrow, and his breath hitches as he sighs against Canada's shoulder.

And finally, Canada knows what to say.

"I'm sorry, England."

* * *

When the fighting is brought to New York, it's an unequivocal victory for the Crown.

Canada should be happy. It means they're one step closer to bringing an end to this madness once and for all, but somehow, as he looks out at the burning city from one of England's world-renown ships, leaning over the edge and watching the water lap at the shoreline, all he feels is remorse.

He asks for England's permission to walk around the city for a bit, and though England is confused by his motives, he allows him to momentarily leave the ship and survey the damage. If all goes as planned, England will be rebuilding these collapsed homes and buildings within a few years' time.

It's by complete chance that he stumbles into America. His brother is helping some of the Patriots retreat when he sees him, and America has to do a double-take to be certain he's looking at who he thinks he's looking at.

"Canada," he says hoarsely, voice a wisp of what it used to be. "Guess I shouldn't be surprised to see you here. Having a good time?"

Canada scowls and wants to tell America to give up because of course he's not having a good time doing this, but something about the confrontational tone America is using makes him back down, and he merely watches as the young man grabs another soldier's shoulder and hefts him up off the burning ground.

And with that, America turns away and doesn't say anything else. Canada considers going after him, and as he's reaching a hand out to pull him closer, a nest of light blond hair attracts his attention.

"France," Canada mumbles, hands trembling. It's been so long. Too, too, long. He sprints over to him at once, barely resisting the immense urge he has to hug the man. It wouldn't be appropriate to embrace him now. They're at war.

But they used to be family and that must still mean something, right?

France is hurriedly speaking to another man in French when he cranes his neck around to meet Canada's eyes.

Canada isn't sure how he wants the man to respond—maybe with a cheerful "Mathieu!" or "I've missed you," or "I'm relieved to see England's cooking hasn't harmed you yet."

But France gives him a scornful sidelong glance, continues to murmur something under his breath, and sweeps away, refusing to pay him any mind.

Canada bites his tongue and stays planted to the same spot for a long while, eyes watering from emotion and the billows of black smoke still rising from some of the surrounding rooftops. How could France pretend not to recognize him and treat him so coldly after all they'd been through together? Doesn't he understand that he doesn't want to be fighting these battles? He's doing it because he doesn't have a choice—because he's England's now, and not because he wants anyone hurt. Why can't France see it through his view?

Soundlessly, he marches back to the ship, hands curled into quivering fists as he boards. He intends to go retreat to some secluded part of the ship, so he can be alone for as long as time will permit, but England notices something isn't right upon his return, and asks, "Are you all right, lad?"

So this is what it feels like, then. This is what it's like to be handed a declaration of independence. This is how it hurts.

And he knows, in that moment, that he will stop America, regardless of the sacrifice it'll take.

"I'm fine," he replies, getting better at this whole stoicism notion. "We have a lot of work to do."

* * *

Seven years since the first bullet was fired, and still, there isn't an end in sight, but the political discourse in Europe has changed, and with that the monarchy has found itself distracted with other matters. America stops being a priority, and there is hushed talk of looking eastward to Asia—of abandoning this fruitless war for greater prospects. England never admits to these rumors and whisperings directly, but he must have borne witness to them at some point because his demeanor darkens. He is not ready to let go, although everyone else is.

There is, as with all wars, a breaking point. When word spreads that General Cornwallis and his men are captured during the Siege of Yorktown, the talk of negotiation becomes stronger than ever before, until finally, England can't pretend he isn't listening anymore. He is given orders by the Crown to strike a deal—to come up with a treaty, which is the last thing he wants to do.

It means he is forced to meet with America face-to-face. Over half a decade of shouting vulgarities at one another has led up to this moment. Now they must force themselves to be civil.

The meeting takes place in Paris, and Canada's presence is requested at the event. He isn't surprised to also see France in the meeting room as they arrive. The whole crew is back together again—two imperialists and their former/current colonies. They gather around a large table, all wearing calculated faces that try not to betray any emotions.

America looks a little ragged—one of his arms is in a sling, and his hairline is slightly singed, but they look like heroic battle wounds as opposed to unfortunate injuries. Though Canada isn't able to explain why, he feels like America exudes more strength than ever before, despite not being at his top form.

England and France work out most of the details of the treaty, since they have been at war with one another enough times to know the routine of how these situations tend to get resolved. They talk to each other with such neutral voices that Canada has to watch in awe. It doesn't seem like England and France have been old adversaries at all.

"Is there anything you'd like to add, Canada?" England suddenly asks, snapping him out of his thoughts.

"Oh, err—" Canada fumbles, just now realizing that he hasn't been paying attention for the last fifteen minutes or so. "No, I think everything's in order."

"Very well. I suppose that's it, then."

England won't even look in America's general direction. He has his gaze pointedly on the treaty sitting innocently between them.

"You sure you don't want to request your independence, too, Canada?" America teases, and England looks like he's just been force-fed a lemon—it's too soon.

Canada isn't sure if he should respond, and so he doesn't.

Thankfully, England continues, ignoring the crude interruption. He signs the treaty, watches America scribble his signature as well, and then they all stand up and leave the room, staying out of each other's way. Canada can't stand it. The ice between them is too thick.

Acting on a spurt of courage, he grabs America's shoulder, and says, "Our relations don't have to change."

England turns around to look at them and frowns in disapproval, but he doesn't interject.

"That's nice of you to say. We'll see," America says ambiguously, bounding out of the room after France, and Canada swears he sees France smile for a split second before they round the corner and disappear.

"Are you okay?" he asks England once they're alone again.

"No," England says, dropping any previous façade. "Are _you_ okay?"

"No."

"I see… Canada, should you wish to speak to a certain frog or your brother, you may do so, but I'd prefer not to know, so don't allow me to find out."

Canada nods. "I understand."

"Now, if you don't mind too horribly, I'm off to have a pint… or two… or twelve."

* * *

 _1812_

When Canada sought to mend his relationship with America, this is not what he had in mind.

The nerve! America is pressing his luck. One successful revolution and suddenly he's acting like he's the greatest power in the world and can start his own empire.

Canada lets England know about America's plot to annex Canadian territory right away, and England's first reaction is to _laugh_. This is not a laughing matter!

What does America think he's doing? Liberating him? Well, he doesn't need any liberating—he's fine where he is!

He doesn't feel even the smallest bit guilty when he and England set his southern neighbor's "White House" ablaze for trying his own hand at colonization. He can walk right along and find someone else to invade!

For reasons that elude Canada, England isn't as upset as he thought he would be. Rather, he treats the entire military campaign with a light air and is able to get America to stand down with a treaty that basically ensures that everything will return back to the way it was as long as America promises not to attempt annexation again. If his brother weren't so deeply in debt already, maybe he wouldn't have agreed to put down his guns so easily.

Canada wants some answers, and thus, he interrogates England during his next visit, wondering what has changed between the man and America while he wasn't looking.

"He's only trying to assert himself. He does not pose any actual threat, aside from him being young and idiotic," England assures. "He will not make another attempt to attack you, so you mustn't worry."

"How can you know that?"

"Because he is still establishing himself as a sovereign nation and has hundreds of other matters to tend to at the moment, aside from finding new ways to inflate his ego."

England has a soft spot for America even now. That much is clear—but Canada can't decide whether that's a good or bad thing.

* * *

 _1861_

"We're setting off for Washington first thing in the morning."

"Oh, I didn't know there was a meeting," Canada says, searching through his black leather planner to see if he'd written the date down and forgotten, or whether he never wrote it down in the first place.

"This isn't a planned visit," England explains.

"Oh, did something happen?"

"Yes, but it'd be better if we discuss this along the way."

"This doesn't have anything to do with America's civil war, does it? He specifically told me he doesn't want any foreign powers getting involved."

"No—I mean yes. It concerns the war, but not in the way you think."

Canada narrows his eyes in suspicion. Whatever England's up to, he doesn't want to be dragged into it.

After suffering through an arduous trip with very few stops to rest, Canada greets Washington D.C. with a famished belly and a killer migraine. America had better have made hotel accommodations because—wait.

They're not at the White House or a conference building. Instead, they're standing in front of America's home.

"England, what's going on?"

"Come," England retorts sharply, knocking on the front door before Canada can continue protesting.

The door swings open, but it isn't America who greets them. It's France.

"How is he?" England asks at once, and France steps aside to let them in.

"See for yourself, _Angleterre_."

The three of them gather in the living room, where a very sick America is recumbent on the sofa, moaning and groaning nonsense to himself.

"America?" England asks, crouching down beside the young man. "Can you hear me?"

America peels his bloodshot eyes open, mumbles something, and reaches out to grab ahold of England's hand.

Looking at America lying immobile and pale, Canada sees England is right—America is oh so very young. Too young to make it through a gruesome civil war like this unscathed.

The worry on England's face is clearer than ever before, and Canada has to withhold a smile. Once a caretaker, always a caretaker.

England pushes back America's hair and whispers something to him.

"E-England," America responds brokenly.

"I'm right here."

"W-Why?"

"Why not?"

America grins softly and coughs, rattling his entire body. "Stay?"

"I'll stay for a little while," England promises quietly as he pets America's hand. "You should sleep. This'll all be over soon enough."

Just then, someone touches Canada's shoulder, and he realizes France is motioning for him to leave the living room with him. France steps out into the foyer, and Canada obligingly trails after him, heart pounding because this is the first one-to-one interaction he's had with the man in nearly a century.

"I thought those two deserved some privacy, _non_? Their situation is complicated even now," France says when he has deemed them to be far enough away from the ensuing drama. "It is good to see them talking to one another again. I thought _Angleterre_ was intolerable before, but ever since America left, he's been a constant pain in my side."

Canada manages a half-smile and says, "Yeah, I think they might still be able to work things out. They're finally talking to each other."

" _Oui_ , just as we are," France agrees, scrutinizing Canada up-and-down. "How have you been?"

"Why do you suddenly want to know?"

"Oh, Canada, that was a bit cold of you. I didn't expect that kind of reply."

"Well, what do you want me to say?" Canada asks, more than a little peeved. "You don't send me any letters and pretend not to know me for so many years, and now you want to know what I'm up to?"

France glowers and puts both of his hands on either of Canada's shoulders, squeezing them tightly. "It was too hard for me, _mon lapin_. After losing you, I couldn't bring myself to look you in the eyes, and then when the war came—well, I wasn't able to come to terms with you fighting on _Angleterre's_ side. I was embarrassed and hurt, but you have every right to be angry with me. I understand."

"No," Canada growls, "you don't understand. You don't know what it's like to wake up every morning and wonder if the man who raised you still thinks about you or cares about whether or not you're okay."

"Perhaps not, but I did wake up every morning and wonder if the boy I raised still thought about me or cared whether or not I was okay," France supplies, blue eyes shimmering with regret. "Has _Angleterre_ been taking good care of you at least?"

"I've been fine."

France nods. "That man is many things, but he wouldn't purposefully mistreat a child—not that you're a child anymore, but you were when we were separated."

"I thought about you each day."

"As did I."

Canada sighs and hangs his head, trying to decide whether he's relieved or still angry.

"Canada, if _Amerique_ and _Angleterre_ can begin to stitch up old wounds, then we might be able to do the same."

Canada scoffs. "England will go right back to pretending to hate America as soon as he's recovered. There won't be a reconciliation."

"Not a public reconciliation, but a private one, I'm sure," France amends, letting his hands fall away from Canada's shoulders. "What do you say?"

All this time of waiting for a response or an acknowledgement of some sort, and now that he's finally got it, he's not sure whether he's ready to forgive and forget. Forgive, maybe. Forget, not so much.

"A-All right," Canada mumbles, shaking France's hand before the man drags him into a hug. "Just one thing, France."

" _Oui_?"

"Don't make me fight in any more wars against you."

France releases him from the hug and says, "I'll have to discuss that with _Angleterre_ , but I think we can work something out."

"Good."

"Will you be available to have lunch sometime?" France asks, and it's a little odd to witness him acting so formal toward him. It's something they'll have to work on remedying.

"Sure, of course. I'd really like that."

* * *

Their unplanned visit ends up lasting two weeks—just long enough for America to be able to stand up on his own two feet as there is a lull in the fighting for a few days. Although Canada had thought that after 1812, he would've lost all compassion for his brother, this visit has taught him otherwise. Even though America is a complete fool and doesn't care about anyone but himself on most days, Canada must admit he still feels some kind of magnetic bond that keeps him from holding a grudge.

"Canadia, old buddy! It's good to see you!" America says in a booming voice as he rises from bed and braces some of his weight on England.

"It's Canada," Canada corrects him. Is America still delirious and dazed, or does he genuinely not remember his name? Neither option is very good.

America smirks in an antagonizing way and now Canada knows he's messing with him. The realization doesn't make things any better—he's still just as annoyed.

"Yeah, sure, if that's what you wanna call yourself now. How's England been treating you? Do you need your handy, dandy brother's help?" America asks, cocking his head to the side.

"I think you ought to be helping yourself first," England cuts in with a growl, tugging America's sweaty shirt off before shoving his arms through the sleeves of a clean one. "It's a miracle you're still conscious, considering how poorly you've been caring for yourself."

America smiles a teeny-tiny smile and murmurs, "Careful, England, your soft side is showing. You'd better take care of that, or I'll start thinking you actually care whether or not I'm dead or alive."

In retaliation for the cheeky remark, England releases his grip on America and lets him fall gracelessly back onto his bed.

"Agh… That's more like the England I know," America winks in between winces.

So this is how it's going to be between them from now on—constant passive-aggressiveness until the end of time. Canada can live with that. It's better than ignoring one another.

"Hey, England, you mind letting me talk to Canada alone for a minute? I promise not to hurt him or his feelings," America requests, and although England is dubious at first, he must believe that America is injured enough not to pull any tricks because he nods his head and sweeps out of the bedroom, stating he'll be back in fifteen minutes to ensure that the young man really isn't up to anything.

Being alone in a room with America is like riding an unpredictable horse. One doesn't know what the man's next move is going to be or what's going on inside his head. He could be the most welcoming and friendly creature to walk the planet, or he could be a fierce enemy with a dark agenda. One minute they could be galloping happily along, and in the next minute, Canada could be lying in a heap on the ground with a bruised self-esteem.

"It's good to see you're holding up all right," America begins slowly, leaning back against the headboard of his bed. "Better than me, that's for sure… Look, I know things have been strange lately, and we haven't had the best feelings toward one another lately, but I just wanted to say I'm sorry. I'm sorry for being a really terrible brother, and well, I guess this whole civil war going on right now is me getting what I deserve."

Canada's mouth moves before his mind can process anything. "Stop. Don't say that. Nobody deserves this."

"Still as nice as always, huh?" America chuckles at him. "You don't have to deny it. I put you through some hard situations, and if you don't accept my apology, I get it, but I wanted to put it out there, you know?"

"Thank you."

America scratches the back of his neck nervously and laughs, "Yeah, sure thing…"

"And I accept your apology, America."

"Really?"

"Yeah, you once said during the Revolution that you thought someday we might be able to put everything behind us and you'd show me a life beyond the British Empire, and while I'm not trying to achieve the latter, I… I miss having my dumb brother around."

"Hey, who're you calling dumb?" America huffs, but a second later, he's laughing warmly again. "God, don't get all sappy on me, but I've missed you, too, okay? Don't make me say it twice. Just get over here and let me hug you. Hurry up before England gets back."

Canada rolls his eyes but cautiously winds his arms around his brother's shoulder for a brief, second-long hug. They don't want to be caught being too affectionate. How embarrassing would that be?

"When I'm able to get around again, we should get together like we used to and catch up."

"Yeah, we should."

"Do me a favor and make sure England's not trying to cook anything for me, please? I don't think my stomach would be able to handle it if he is," America jokes, giving Canada a small punch in the shoulder.

"Don't worry, France won't let him near the kitchen."

"One small, happy family, huh?"

"You could say that," Canada agrees as he makes his way out, a fuzzy feeling bunching up in his chest. This is nice. This is good.

Better to have a dysfunctional family than none at all, and Canada's sure there's still hope for them yet.


End file.
